


Work by Night

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Disability, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t do this,” House says, on the thirteenth day after Wilson is transported home from the stepdown unit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work by Night

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING for major character illness and major character death**. Title is from the song [Cancer](http://www.last.fm/music/Joe+Jackson/_/Cancer) by Joe Jackson. Thank you to [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta and Early Readers for support.

“I can’t do this,” House says, on the thirteenth day after Wilson is transported home from the stepdown unit.

“It’s all right, dear,” says Wilson’s mom, as she tucks the blanket tighter under Wilson’s shoulder. It’s a few minutes past nine, _Dancing with the Stars_ just ended, and Wilson is out like a light. “You don’t have to come over every evening. You’re a busy man; you have responsibilities, obligations.”

“Physically can’t do it,” House clarifies. “My leg and –”

“It’s fine.” She pats his arm with the hand that was just smoothing down Wilson’s hair. “David and I can manage, between us. You’ve been such a help. You need a break; I understand.”

She does understand, and she’s not judging him. She thinks he’s right.

He still feels like an asshole when he doesn’t go by the next day.

* * *

“Well,” Wilson’s dad says, on the twentieth day post-stepdown unit, “we want to let you know what we’re thinking, Greg.”

“Interesting,” House says as he sneaks a look at the cards Wilson’s dad has tucked into Wilson’s hand. Pair of kings, ooh. “Goat Man here’s never been inclined to let me in his head.”

“Hu,” Wilson says. It’s more an exhalation than a word formation; it sounds exactly like an exasperated sigh, but they figured out pretty quickly that it means he’s talking about House. _Not much different than before the stroke_ , House has ruminated more than once.

Wilson’s word for his father is a clear short “Da,” but his mother’s name has lengthened into a bleating goat-like “Maaaa.” Every time he says it, House pictures stubby horns emerging from his mop of hair, and it’s so very, very entertaining.

House leans back in his chair and fixes Wilson with an exaggerated beady-eyed stare. “You really fussing about me taking a look-see? _You’re_ the one who’s cheating by having your dad help you. I mean really.”

Wilson’s eyes roll a little. It’s somewhat hard to tell; since the stroke, the turn-in is significantly more pronounced than before. But House is pretty sure that was a deliberate eyeroll. Wilson huffs again, louder than before.

“I don’t think he likes the nickname,” Wilson’s dad says, giving Wilson’s hand another look. “Jimmy raises you five.”

“You’ve always been a big bluffer, Goat Man, but I think I’ll get lucky on the river. I’ll call.”

Wilson lets gravity work its magic, and slumps a fraction farther to the left. In the old days, it would’ve been a gesture of tiredness, or exasperation. Now it means “yes.” Slumping to the right means “no.” It’s so exactly Wilson, House has thought since the first moment he figured out the movements, to make “no” the harder thing to communicate.

“Yes, what?” House asks. “You agree I’m going to get lucky? Yeah, baby, every time I have an extra fifty in my wallet.”

“Hu,” Wilson snorts, and House is no doubt imagining the flush on his face, the embarrassment he probably feels (would have felt, before) at having House discuss prostitutes in front of his parents.

Wilson’s dad leans in, helps Wilson sit up straighter. “I think he’s agreeing he doesn’t like the nickname.” Wilson immediately lists to the left again.

“Yeah, yeah,” House says, and lays down the river card. “I’ve called you worse.” Ace of clubs. “Damn it.”

Wilson would be smiling if his mouth could manage it, House is sure.

“You win again, Jimmy,” Wilson’s dad says with glee, tossing Wilson’s cards onto the table. Three of a kind. “You take after your Grandma Hazel, biggest card shark on the Jersey Shore.”

Wilson has apparently held out on telling House about more than one interesting relative. “Grandma Hazel?”

“Mm,” Wilson’s dad says as he stretches. “But that’s a story for another day. We wanted to tell you what our plans are.”

House is instantly on alert. “Plans?”

“Tentative plans,” Wilson’s dad emphasizes. “We wanted your input before we made any final decisions. Ellie!”

Wilson’s mom comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She drapes it on the upraised head of the hospital bed, stuck where the dining room table used to be, and then crosses over to them at the dining table’s new location. She stands behind Wilson, her hand going as always to stroke his hair, and Wilson’s dad scoots his chair closer to Wilson’s side.

Great. A wall of Wilsons. Three against one. This is going to suck.

Wilson’s mom starts, Wilson’s dad continues, and Wilson throws in a couple of huffs here and there, but the long and the short of it is: they’re taking Wilson back home with them to Westwood.

“We have the great backyard, with so many birds and butterflies for Jimmy to watch,” Wilson’s mom notes. “Always something happening there. And the senior center where I volunteer has a wheelchair-ready shuttle, so when I go there two days a week, Jimmy can come with me.” Her hand strokes down to his collar as she kisses him on the top of his head. “You’ve always loved being around people, and such a charmer. The ladies at the center will be eating out of your hand.”

Wilson’s eyes roll, but House can tell he’s pleased. _Right_ , House wants to yell, _a graying, spastic, wheelchair-bound near-gork’s going to be scoring with women_ , but the hell of it is, this is Wilson. He just might fucking pull it off.

No pun intended.

It’s a sound plan that Wilson’s parents have cooked up. There’s a rehab center near their house where Wilson can continue his therapies; they have a cousin in the area getting her nursing degree who can help in the evenings; between Wilson’s insurance and his extensive savings (because _of course_ the fucker was almost a hundred percent in bonds when the stock market tanked), there’s enough money to cover all his needs.

They’ve thought of everything.

House is pissed.

“Wilson’s home is here,” he says, and watches with bile creeping up his throat as Wilson slowly, deliberately leans toward the right. _No_.

“You bastard,” House whispers at him, and Wilson’s eyes start to fill with tears.

 _Bastard_.

* * *

“Bowling,” Chase says, on the thirty-second day since Wilson went _home_ to Westwood. House doesn’t look up from the mini TV.

“Tonight,” Chase continues. “I bought shoes.”

“Whoopty-shit.”

Chase shifts his body between House and the TV, which has been the most fucking annoying move on the planet since the television set was invented. _Before the 1920s_ , House reflects, _back to the caveman days, the most annoying move was the Wet Willy. True fact._

Chase still hasn’t moved his ugly mug. “I’m going to kick your ass,” the Australian says, except, because he’s Australian, he actually says, “arse,” and the unusual word pings off of House’s funny bone.

When he stops laughing, Chase is looking stupidly smug, and House picks the gauntlet up off the metaphorical floor. “It will in fact be your _arse_ that is wiped all across the floor when I’m done with you.”

“Loser buys beer,” Chase says, and House shakes his head.

“Loser better _bring_ some damn beer, because the alley on Tenth quit carrying decent brew six months ago.”

Chase nods. “Meet you there at six.”

At five fifty-five, House is sitting behind the wheel of his car, looking at the scarred Plexiglas around the vestibule of the bowling alley. It’s a rundown craphole, made even uglier by the glare of the mercury-vapor lights in the parking lot. But there’s a gold-tinged glow coming from inside the building, and when the doors open at the same time, House can hear the crack of balls hitting pins and the rumble of mixed chatter and laughter.

He takes a deep breath and gets out of his car.

* * *

“Funeral’s the day after tomorrow,” Chase says, some time long after House has quit counting days.

House changes the channel to Discovery Kids. _Flight 29 Down_ ’s not a bad little _Lost_ knock-off.

Chase leans forward and grabs his beer off the coffee table. “Cameron’s going to try to change her flight back from the conference so she can meet me there. You want a ride?”

“Not going,” House says and slumps farther down on his cushion. His beer is tucked between his hip and the couch arm, safe and sound.

Chase shifts in his seat. “All right.”

“All right?” House snorts. “No lecture?”

“If you don’t want to go to grieve your best friend, then whatever. It’s up to you.”

House snorts again. The beer is cold in his mouth – bottle cold against his lip – but it doesn’t seem to want to go down his throat. He swallows it, _forces_ it, and informs Chase, “My best friend’s been gone for two years. Just because the husk that used to hold him crapped out is no reason to sit around crying into the Kleenex.”

Chase shrugs. “Well, when you put it that way... I’m still going to go.”

“I just –”

“When my dad died,” Chase interrupts, “I didn’t get to go to the funeral.”

“And you never had a chance to properly grieve, so now you fetishistically glom onto every wake and memorial you can find as a way to soothe your poor, aching heart.”

“Um, no.” Chase drinks from his beer, then sets it down and picks up his water glass instead. “I had plenty of opportunity to grieve, in the hours you weren’t working me half to death.” Chase ignores the rolling of House’s eyes. “What I missed out on, what I would have liked to have had, was the experience, the comfort, of people telling me they were sorry that someone I’d loved was gone. Didn’t really get that. So I’m going to go to Wilson’s funeral, even though I didn’t know him very well, so that his parents can hear how sad I am that they lost their son.”

On the TV, Daley is rejecting the stupid-ass bracelet Nathan made for her. _Why shouldn’t she?_ He’s a numbnuts for ever thinking it could work out.

“I’m sorry the person you loved is dead,” Chase says. House wants to punch him right in the face, but he frankly doesn’t have the energy.

* * *

He takes the bike to Westwood. The ceremony is in Teaneck, but Wilson’s mom invited him to stay over afterward. He doesn’t want to, but then again, there’s a lot he doesn’t want to do. Wilson’s mom’s a good cook. He’s got that to look forward to, at least.

The funeral is... a funeral. He manages to finagle a seat in the back, next to Chase. Cuddy’s closer to the front, near the family, doing the Jew thing. And presumably, the ex-boss, ‘sorry I slave-drove your son into stroking out’ thing. Probably not the ‘he once took me to a kinky art exhibit and I did him in one of the bathroom stalls’ thing. Probably not. Especially given that the second half of that only ever existed in House’s mind.

He thinks.

Cameron gets there a few minutes before the whole thing starts, and practically falls into House’s lap trying to get across him to the seat on Chase’s other side. She smells like stale air and sweat; House has no idea what Chase sees in her. Then she takes Chase’s hand and leans against his shoulder, and yeah, all right, House vaguely remembers that that sort of thing felt good. Being the one someone wanted to lean on.

There’s a eulogy. The rabbi gives it. It’s all, “Blah blah blah, circle of life, blah blah, James was a good man, blah blah, blah fucking blah.” He doesn’t mention how Wilson was an adulterer and a cheat. He doesn’t mention how he sold his best friend up the river, and was a godawful nag, and a ridiculous, anal fussbudget, and how he hated whipped cream on everything but waffles, and couldn’t carry a tune. Those things go unmentioned.

Until two hours later, when they’re back at the disgustingly suburban Victorian home in Westwood, when House spills it all, every last secret he knows about James Evan Wilson.

No, not every one, actually. Only the funny ones.

The serious ones... Well, you’ve got to take something to the grave with you, and it can’t be money, so it might as well be your vices.

“Greg,” Wilson’s mom says, after. “You have such a way with words. What a wonderful gift to give us – more of our son.” She’s smiling; House doesn’t know how.

It creeps him out a little, somewhere in the most cynical reaches of his brain.

“You shared with us; now I have something to share with you.” She leads him up the stairs, moving carefully, and stops in front of a door with a picture of Hitchcock taped to it. As her hand falls on the doorknob, Wilson’s dad emerges from another bedroom and sighs.

“Ellie, what are you doing? You know I love all your reminiscing, but you also know it bores the boys’ friends to no end. You’ve already bent Greg’s ear enough with baby stories.”

Hands on hips, she stares him down. House expects her to pinch the bridge of her nose, but she doesn’t. “I’m not going to be saying a thing, David. But Greg here likes to explore, so I’m going to let him. Least I can do for such a good friend of Jimmy’s.”

Wilson’s dad’s shoulder goes up in the air, an ‘I’ve said my piece’ move that was always followed by another bit of lecture when Wilson did it. Wilson’s dad simply walks past them with a sad smile, giving a pat to House’s shoulder in passing.

“I know it’s not typical any more to keep your child’s room as it was,” Wilson’s mom says as the door swings open. “But I’d rather have a reminder of the memories than more empty space in the house.”

It’s a mid-1980s pop-culture diorama, laced with Beat-Generation-poser influences and a smattering of film geek. It couldn’t be more Wilson if the man himself was sleeping on the skinny twin bed.

Wilson’s mom is still smiling that happy, content smile that House doesn’t get. “Do you want to know where his secret hidey-hole was, or do you want the challenge of finding it yourself?”

“You knew where his secret stash was?”

She squeezes his bicep affectionately. “All mothers know. I’ll be downstairs with the family; if you need anything, just call.”

“Maaaa,” House bleats, and _that_ fractures the smile on her face.

Sometimes he wishes he held his tongue more often.

The room gives up its secrets easily enough. Teen Wilson had been thoroughly unimaginative in choosing hiding places. Mislabeled box in the closet, fake-looking false bottom on the largest desk drawer, bag duct-taped to the underside of the boxspring. The only reasonably clever one is behind a small rectangle of paneling directly under the closet light switch. That’s where House finds the photos.

Three photographs of Wilson and another boy, and a couple of girls. Wilson is skinny and smooth and looks like he’s all of twelve, but that’s no indicator. He could be twelve or seventeen, or anywhere in between.

That’s not the interesting thing about the pictures, though. Not one bit. The fact that in one of the pictures he’s very visibly sticking his tongue down the throat and his hand up the skirt of a girl who looks just as much like a twelve-year-old as he does is worthy of a note, but it’s not the interesting thing, either.

No, the _interesting_ thing is in the shape of his hair – moussed or gelled into a spiky bouffant – and in the dark line tracing along the roots of his eyelashes on each eye. Wilson is wearing _make-up_.

This is too good. House makes his way downstairs and tugs aside Tom, Wilson’s older brother. They head out to the backyard, which is just as bird- and butterfly-bedecked as Wilson’s mom said it was. With a grin House shows his treasure to Wilson’s brother, saying in triumph, “Secret life of the drag queen!”

Wilson’s brother snatches the photos away, squints at the one on top, and starts to laugh. “Man, I remember that era. It wasn’t drag queen; it was just New Wave. All the girls were into it – the Duran Duran, New Romantic style. And the teenage boys around here who were willing to try the style, willing to let the girls make them up... whew, were they popular.” Wilson’s brother looks up at House and grins. “Jimmy got to be real popular, that summer.”

Of course he did. Of course. And of course Wilson would let the girls do what they wanted to him, and of course he’d happily take the rewards they offered, and...

House is laughing. Hard. Harder than he has in ages. Wilson’s brother joins him for a moment, then just rubs his hunched-over back as he cackles and snorts until tears come to his eyes.

* * *

“Don’t be a stranger,” Tom says, on the first day since House said goodbye to the best friend he’s ever had. “I can definitely tell why Jimmy adored you, and I know I’m not as smart, or clever, or anything as him, but it still might be fun to grab a beer some time.”

Tom lives in Morristown, which is less than an hour from Princeton. Not too far to go for a beer, on a good day at least. House shrugs and hoists his backpack to his shoulder. Ellie pulls on the strap and stretches the pack across his back, making him loop his other arm in, too. When it’s settled securely, she smiles.

“I look like a nerd,” House grumbles.

“You look very handsome,” she replies, and smoothes back his hair with a firm but affectionate hand. David is watching from the porch.

“You’re too nice,” House says, talking to all of them.

They smile in concert, silly warm grins. It’s pathetic.

“Take care of yourself, Greg,” says Ellie.

House nods, tugs on his helmet, and drives away.


End file.
